


Yeoman

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:34:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21539845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: The computer gives Paul the wrong order.
Relationships: Hugh Culber/Paul Stamets
Comments: 7
Kudos: 41





	Yeoman

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Most of the time, they wake up together. They whisper their _good morning_ s, even if it’s not the morning at all, and sometimes share a few morning-breath laden kisses and even a fleeting touch here and there. They’ll push out of bed, both wanting to stay but neither hating the work they have to leave for. They’ll pull on their uniforms, stand side-by-side in the bathroom cubicle and brush their teeth over the sink, and then say their good-byes. 

Every so often, they’re out of sync, and Hugh will find himself brushing his teeth alone while Paul has to fetch a new uniform from the Synthesizer, because an experiment went wrong or Tilly spilled something on it or maybe even Hugh was a little too rough on the seams. There’s never been a problem Synthesizing new uniforms before.

But nothing’s ever _fully_ perfect out in space, even a computer so advanced as the one on the Discovery. So it’s not a huge surprise when Paul mutters from the other room, “Damn it.”

Hugh moves the toothbrush aside just enough to call back, “What is it?”

“It gave me the wrong uniform, and now the darn thing’s offline... if I had time to fix it...”

“Just put it on,” Hugh counters, because surely Paul’s an integral enough member of the crew that he can get away with wearing the wrong uniform for one shift. He probably wouldn’t even get called out on it. It’s not like he spends much time on the bridge or has particularly judgmental coworkers. As far as Hugh can tell, _Paul’s_ the most judgmental one in Engineering.

Paul swears, and then Hugh hears the telltale rustle of clothing. Obviously, Paul’s decided he has no other option, but he’s definitely not happy about it. Hugh would point out that Paul’s precious spores won’t care at all what he’s wearing, but Hugh’s busy scrubbing his molars. 

Then Paul’s reflection emerges in the mirror, and Hugh automatically smiles at his handsome face. He’s one of those people that’s cute even when he’s upset. Then Hugh’s eyes stray lower down Paul’s body, and the hand holding his toothbrush freezes.

He spits out his mouthful of paste and turns to get a proper look, just in case the mirror was playing tricks on him.

Paul spreads his arms, clearly exasperated. He’s standing there in one of the new style red uniforms—the _dress_ version.

Hugh admits, “It’s not bad.”

“Not bad?” Paul repeats, looking at Hugh like he’s grown seven Klingon heads. “It’s practically a shirt!” 

It _is_ short. Questionably short. The sleek skirt just barely covers his upper thighs, and if he makes the mistake of bending over, everyone will see everything. He won’t be able to spread his legs if he sits down. It doesn’t even matter that the rest of it will standout jarringly amongst the crisp blue uniforms of Discovery; Hugh’s just caught on Paul’s legs. 

He shrugs and offers, “At least you have great legs.”

Paul rolls his eyes. Hugh can’t help the grin tugging at his face. He tries to keep it back, because he can see his partner isn’t happy, and it’s not fair of him to ignore that just because he enjoys seeing large parts of Paul’s gorgeous figure exposed. He tries to keep his gaze above the waistline and commiserates, “Sorry. I’d offer you one of mine, but...”

“I can’t wear medical white in case there’s a crisis and someone mistakes me for a doctor, I get it,” Paul fills in, “But _really_? How am I supposed to work in this? There’s no protection! And it’s all... breezy.”

Hugh just barely holds back a snort. “I suppose you could call in sick. Should I write you a doctor’s note?”

Paul makes an aggravated noise and tosses his head back, shoulders slumping. But he ultimately shakes his head and grumbles, “No, I need to go in... Tilly’s a good officer, but my spores...”

“Need their daddy,” Hugh provides, which earns him _that look_. He really can’t hold his smile back any more. And he’s already dressed himself, teeth brushed, ready to go. He offers another, “Sorry, babe.”

Paul grunts. Hugh kisses his cheek on the way out and heads off to work.


End file.
